


Thursday's Child

by tessiete



Category: E.R.
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Drama, Drug Addiction, Gen, bildungsroman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:10:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1623584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessiete/pseuds/tessiete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Carter came from a privileged background. He was a good child, a quiet child, and a profoundly sad child. Sweet, but mixed up. When he lost Bobby, everything changed. An examination of his past, and a week in the life with a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sabbath Day

**Author's Note:**

> __This is my first foray into E.R. fanfiction, and I realise I'm exceptionally late to the party, but hey! At least I showed up, even if it sort of was fifteen minutes late with Starbucks.  
>  I began watching E.R. this spring, and was immediately fascinated by John Carter, who wears his heart on his sleeve, but lies and hides from everyone. The little tidbits we're fed of his past often seem inconsistent, and this was my own attempt to reconcile them. I'd love to hear any feedback you may have!  
> Warning are for implied abuse of a minor in chapter four, definitely present, and intentional, but not graphic. __

**Bobby** died without him. He'd lain in his bed at the hospital, with his mother and father at his side, and stopped breathing. Riding his bike home from school, John had somehow known. He'd felt it in his lungs, and in his stomach. The bike teetered, and with the grace of active young boys, he'd swung his leg over the seat, foot arching high over the wheel, and dismounted. He dropped the bike to the grass by the curb, and sat down, watching the sunlight shiver on the sidewalk as it passed through the silver summer leaves.

Some while later, Gamma's car pulled up beside him, but she was not in it. John stood as the driver exited the vehicle. Perhaps he exchanged some words of greeting with the man, but in later years he could never recall them when he thought back to that day, which he often did. He remembered dusting off his smart, school slacks, the crease in them as stiff as the collar of his starched white shirt. He dragged his hands into the sleeves of his sweater, careful to hide the damp, twisted cuff, now missing a button after being subjected to John's anxiety. He hoped no one would notice.

The back door of the car was opened, and the small bike was deposited carefully in the trunk. John didn't ask where they were going. The ride to the hospital was passed in silence.

Driving a wide loop around a decorative garden, the car pulled up to the front doors of the Children's Hospital. The door opened, and birdsong filled the cavernous interior of the car. John could hear the flow of water from the fountain in the garden, the creak of wheelchairs and IV poles as ill children caught a few rays of sun, and the coughs of parents catching their breath and catching a smoke as they prepared for shift change at the side of their injured offspring. He swung one foot, then the other out the door, his hands squeaking against the leather seats as he pushed himself forward until his toes touched the pavement outside. The glass doors at the entrance swung open, and his grandmother appeared, her hand outstretched, reaching for him.

He tried to smile at her, but the look in her eyes compelled his mouth into an imitation of the straight, hard line of her own. He slipped his hand into hers, and followed her into the lobby, up the elevator, and to the door of the room that had been Bobby's for the past month. Silhouetted by the light from the room behind him, his father's shadow towered over him, beckoning him closer. Gamma let go her hand, guiding him forward.

“John,” his father breathed his name, in relief, or reverence, John couldn't say, but his arm wrapped around his slim shoulders, and he was pulled inexorably toward the man. Beyond the door frame, John could see his mother, her chin tucked, and her neck bent in mourning like the swans John watched on the pond at Gamma's house. Barbara, a thin, wispy figure, clung to the corner of the room close to the head of the bed, all focus directed to the small bundle that lay still beneath the white sheets.

“John,” his father said again. He stepped back, holding John at the length of his arms, tilting his head to make eye contact with his son. “John, son -” he halted, unsure as to how he ought to continue. “Your brother...Bobby passed away.” Still John said nothing. “Johnny, he died.”

John looked up at his father, still and sombre. “I know,” he said.

With no more revelations to be made, John's father struggled for the words to comfort his youngest child. Having had none for himself, his wife, or his daughter, he had nothing either to offer his only son; his name, his legacy and heir. He shook his head, as though hoping to rid himself of his helplessness, but only succeeded in expelling a rush of air, leaving him deflated, and light-headed. John's gaze was drawn back to the room, his mother, and the bed.

“Would you like to see him, John?” Gamma's strong voice sounded from behind him, and he whirled, embarrassed at having been caught prying. But Gamma pressed on, apparently oblivious to his ill-manners. “Would you like to say goodbye?”

He swallowed. “Yes, ma'am,” he said, bobbing his head.

“You may go in, if you like.”

John turned back to the door, but as he took a step forward the light seemed to shine too bright, the walls seemed to stand too high, and the silence seemed to want to smother him like he used his pillow to do at night. He froze.

“Jack,” Gamma said, “Take your son to his mother.”

Once more, his father's arm wound around his side, and together they broached the threshold of the hospital room.

Inside, everything felt as though it had been engraved in glass, a brittle scene so transparent that the full depth of grief was visible on the other side. It took him a moment to realize that the stillness was in part due to the absence of sound. No monitors beeped out their incessant measure of life, no restless legs rustled beneath sheets as they sought the freedom required to lash out at doctors, or nurses, or him, and though his mother's eyes were red and swollen, no tears were being choked in her throat. Bobby lay still on the bed, his hand open, and empty, waiting for John's to fill it.

He remembered holding his brother's hand on the way to school every year. He remembered how important he felt to merit such a gesture from his older brother, how a warmth would rush from his cheeks to his toes on those days, how he felt sure he could do just about anything with Bobby beside him. He remembered how this past year, Bobby had dropped his hand at the gates, fearful lest anyone should see him with a baby. How he'd pushed him down on the playground, and called him names when he'd cried. How as the visits to the doctor increased, so too did the pinching, and punches John received. But how they'd always play together on Sundays at Gamma's house. How, one Sunday, he'd been pushed out of the tree and sprained his wrist. How Bobby had cried, and John swore he'd never tell, but Bobby was sorry anyway, and said how scared he was, how he knew he was going to die. How he made John promise to be good, to be cheerful, and to make Mom happy, too.

“You have to promise,” he said. “Promise you'll make sure Mom's happy. I make her so sad, and she thinks I don't know that she cries, but sometimes I only pretend to be asleep so I don't have to see her look at me like that. Promise, Johnny. Make her so happy she forgets about how sad I made her.”

John wanted to tell Bobby that he was wrong. He knew, because Bobby made him so happy, and so proud to be his brother, that it was impossible he should make Mom feel any different. But Bobby was his hero, and Bobby knew more than he did, so he promised.

John reached out to touch his hand once more, but it was cold and he withdrew, looking over at his mother as she watched him from across the bed.

“I'm sorry, Mom,” he said, because he'd heard adults say the same thing, and he wanted to show her he could be strong, and grown up. Then he said, “I love you, Mom,” because he wanted to make her happy.


	2. Fair of Face

**The** funeral was held on a Monday. The sun shone as warmly, and the birds sang as brightly as they had the day Bobby had died. John sat with his parents, and his sister, his hand firmly clasped in his mother's. He sat as still as he possibly could, with his feet tucked tightly beneath his chair, so as not to disturb anyone. His grandfather had told him to be good, and to be quiet, and to stay out of everyone's way, to stay out of his mother and father's way. This day was to remember Bobby, and he should respect that, and leave them to their grief. He'd already been careful to fulfil his promise to Bobby, and now he tried to be extra mindful of his grandfather, too.

When he'd woken up that morning, he'd taken care to make his bed with no lumps in it. Lack of practice, and limited reach meant his task had taken far longer than it did when one of the maids tended to it, their practiced hands folding sheets, and fluffing pillows in seconds. But he'd thought it might help, because they'd be able to focus their attention in seeing to his mother and father's needs instead of his own. Then, he'd brushed his teeth, and scrubbed his face until it was pink, making sure to get behind his ears. He'd returned to his room, and slipped into the black suit that had been laid out for him, leaving only the buttons of his sleeves, and his tie undone. The long slip of silky fabric he tucked into a pocket, and the cuffs he pulled up beneath the hem of his jacket sleeves. Glancing in the mirror, he brushed his hair, sweeping it to the side, and doing what he could to make it lie flat. Replacing the comb on his dresser, he straightened himself, and stepped out the room, shutting the door as quietly as he could, and doing his very best to be invisible.

The house was silent, and John briefly wondered if he'd missed the funeral and been left behind, but the grandfather clock that stood sentinel at the top of the staircase told him that it was still early: only a quarter to seven. More likely, everyone was still asleep. In their bereavement, the entire family had converged on Gamma and Gramps' house, waiting for the funeral. The slick floors, and smooth banisters still felt unfamiliar beneath John's hands and feet, but they were excellent for stealth. Stepping into the dining room, John caught the glint of gold, and wandered back toward the mantle. A half dozen Faberge eggs stood proudly in little filigreed stands. Their rounded sides, and bright colours invited investigation, and John obliged. Standing on tiptoe, he was nearly able to grasp them, his fingers skimming along the gilded lines, just out of reach. He stood back, looking for a solution, eyes lighting on the mahogany dining chair at his back. The felt-tipped feet slid smoothly across the marble floor, and he secured the chair against the mantle. As he placed his foot on the cushioned seat, prepared to boost himself up, a clatter of pans sounded from the kitchen.

His curiosity divided, the possibility of discovery convinced him he'd be better served investigating the source of the sound than continuing his Faberge expedition unsupervised. Making his way toward the kitchen, John scrunched his toes up in his stiff leather shoes, lifting the the backs from the floor to hide the hard click of the heels on stone. Peeking out from behind the arch that opened to the kitchen, John could see his grandmother's back as she stood in her dressing gown, amassing a small assortment of utensils and dishware. There were no servants, or family members around. Just Gamma, making breakfast.

She turned back toward the counter, looking up and jumping at the sight of John in the darkened corner. Caught, John stepped forward into the room, the smell of bacon, eggs, and the sharp tang of citrus tickling his nose.

“John!” she said. “You startled me.”

Ashamed, John lowered his head. “Good morning, Gamma,” he said.

The lines of her face softened at his obvious contrition, and the momentary tension dropped from her shoulders. She rinsed her hands in the sink, letting the warm water wash away the filmy remnants of egg, and grabbed the towel that hung from the oven door. Wiping her hands dry, she reached out to the small boy still hovering at the perimeter of the kitchen.

“Good morning, John,” she said, as she approached him, surveying his appearance. The light cotton suit was already slightly rumpled at the elbows, and his hair stuck up at the back where the mirror didn't show. It was childishly charming, and a faint smile touched her lips. “My, don't you look handsome.”

John nodded. “Thank you, Gamma.”

“But you seem to be missing a tie.”

He slid his hand into his pocket, and revealed the long, black silk sash. Gently, as one would come upon a horse in need of a halter, she took the tie from him, and fastened it around his neck, flipping the collar down, smoothing the shoulders of his jacket, and buttoning his cuffs.

“There,” she said. “Now you look a perfect gentleman.”

John didn't quite believe her, but could think of no response. Her attempt at cheerfulness innocently rebuffed, she took his hand and knelt before the boy. She ran a palm over his mussed hair, smoothing it down, and drew her thumb across the closely trimmed nails of his hand in a gesture of comfort that also served to remind herself of how small the person before her was. Only a child. She had almost forgotten. When his gaze continued to rest on the tiled floor, she tucked her forefinger beneath his chin, and raised it up. “Would you like some breakfast?”

Hopeful, hungry eyes finally met hers, but his enthusiasm was extinguished just as swiftly.

“I already brushed my teeth,” he confessed.

“Well, that's alright,” she said, straightening, and moving back toward the stove. “I won't tell if you don't."

Later, they stood in the foyer, waiting for the long line of cars to pass by to collect carefully parcelled packs of family members. John looked out the window and thought about Bobby; how unfair it was that he should miss out on this day, and how it was equally unfair that John should have to miss it too, because of him.

At long last, the limousine reserved for himself, his mother, and his father pulled up to the door. A footman announced their ride, and John began moving toward the exit. His progress halted at the sight of his parents. Across the room, his father stood with his mother, speaking to her softly, but her eyes were dry, and her chin was high. She didn't look like she was much in need of comfort, but she didn't look happy either, and a thrill of guilt slithered deep in John's gut. As he watched, she gave a short nod, and stepped away from his father, heading toward the door. His father seemed to take an eternity to raise his head, and John wasn't sure he'd even noticed his mother leave, but after a moment, his shoulders squared, and he looked up searching for John. Finding him standing stationary across the way, he waved his arm in a broad gesture of summons.

“Brave face, John,” he heard his grandfather speak behind him, his regal tone vibrating in John's chest so that he felt more than heard the power of the warning. “I don't want to see any tears, do you understand, son?”

“Yes, sir,” John whispered.

“Good. Now, head high, and go to them.”

At the cemetery, the sun glinted off the polished white wood of the coffin. He sat between his mother, and sister, his hand clasped firmly in his mother's hand, making no noise, and trying not to shift in his seat as sweat prickled at the base of his neck, and ran down his back.

His father spoke. His grandfather spoke. The priest spoke. John tried to listen, but he was hot, and the sun was making him sleepy, and it seemed to him as if he'd always been at this funeral, listening to people talk about Bobby like he was from a storybook, and not his brilliant older brother who loved basketball, and hated tomatoes in every form, but put up with them in spaghetti because it was John's favourite.

It wasn't until he stood graveside with mother behind him, his hand closed tightly around a fistful of dirt meant to cover the little white box that he suddenly realised Bobby was gone; that he would never see his brother again. Panic came upon him like a sudden wave, forcing his head beneath the surface. He'd never see him again, and he couldn't remember what he looked like. He'd stared and stared this morning, as person after person had shuffled by the open coffin at the house. He'd been concerned by the creases in the silky sheets, and the strange way Bobby's hair fell against his forehead as it never had in life, but he'd not really been looking at him. He couldn't recall his eyes, or his teeth, his mind overlaying every memory he could summon with the blank, hollow mask that had been left behind by death. It was difficult to breathe, standing here now, the heat of his body turning the dirt in his hand to mud. He fought it, but against his will, his eyes welled, and he could feel tears bead along the lash line. He didn't want to bury Bobby. He wanted them all - the priest, and his parents, his uncles, and cousins, everyone – to lift the casket up, to open it and bring Bobby back.

“John,” his grandfather said. John looked up, and saw him waiting at the head of the coffin. In his hands he held a crisp, white handkerchief that he was using to wipe the dust from his hand. “Come.”

John hesitated. He wasn't ready to bury Bobby, and he wasn't going to help them do it. His fingers stayed closed around the dirt, but his feet carried him past the coffin, years of practised obedience compelling him to his grandfather's side.

“Wipe your eyes.”

The handkerchief was thrust in front of him, and he was lead away to the waiting car, pocketing the soil as he went.

Back at the house, the tortuous ceremony carried on with the reception. Five years older, and already distant to him, Barbara had been designated care of the children, but as the youngest, and the brother of the deceased, John had been mostly overlooked. He wandered from room to room, occasionally being handed off from one adult to another, but more frequently, left on his own to hide on footstools that had been set against the wall to clear space for solemn wait-staff with alcohol laden trays.

As he sat, picking at the golden thread which embroidered the heavy upholstery of the stool he had most recently occupied, he was joined by the stoic, upright presence of his grandmother. Immediately, his hand flew to cover the worried stitches of cloth, but Gamma didn't seem to notice.

“I've been looking for you,” she said. “Is everything alright, John?”

“Yes, Gamma,” he lied. “I'm okay.”

“Are you sure?”

She studied him for a moment, and John felt as though he was being subject to a test. Determined to pass, he met her eyes, and pressed his lips together, nodding a quick assurance. She sat, waiting for him to break, but he held her gaze, committed to his deceit.

“Well,” she said, the elastic tension between them released, “I don't know about you, but I could go for some ice cream. Would you be so kind as to keep an old woman company?” She extended her arm toward him, awaiting his escort with the same dignity she attended on his grandfather.

John scrambled to his feet, somewhat wary of the prospect, but hopeful for the first time in days. He wound his arm around hers, firm in his desire to care for her with all the poise tralatitious to a Carter.

“You're not old, Gamma,” he said, stoutly.

“You're handsome,” she replied. “But you're a terrible liar.”


	3. Full of Grace

**His** parents left on a Tuesday. There were no tears, and no complaints. Barbara didn't even come down from her room, but John stood at the door and watched the black sedan pull away. His father turned once in his seat to wave out the rear view window, and John waved back. He understood.

The past few months had been a series of increasingly dizzying trips around the world. Dad had been hard at work, building connections, and brokering deals under the more critical, and calculating supervision of his wife, while John and Barbara found themselves shuffling in and out beneath the roofs of various traditional architecture. Rarely stationary long enough to unpack, the care and education of the children passed on to tutors and nannies.

Barbara chafed under this new system. At fourteen she was old enough to miss her friends, and young enough to believe she'd never make more. She stormed around each hotel, or company flat intent on making everyone around her bristle, reminding John of the way heavy, rain-filled clouds chilled the air, and raised the hair on his arms, and the back of his neck. His father elected to smile, buy her gifts, and turn his face from her anger, while Mom seemed to feel the chill, and embrace it. John mostly just tried to stay out of the way. But once in a while, he'd see Barbara wipe her face, or his father's shoulders stoop, or catch the cool, increasingly impartial gaze of his mother, and he'd remember his promise. On those days, he'd be sure to request Barbara's favourite meals from the cook or the kitchen staff, he'd think of an amusing joke he'd overhead for his father, or he'd display a new found piece of knowledge or ability for his mother.

Barbara was Barbara, and he knew she was angry. Jokes never failed to make his father laugh, especially the ones John didn't quite understand, but knew he shouldn't have listened to. But his mother's smile was smaller and came more slowly than ever, and he was worried that she was forgetting how. So he redoubled his efforts.

He made sure to be extra quiet in the morning, leaving his mother to sleep. He did his homework promptly, without being asked and without asking for help. He laid the silverware on the table every night at six, no matter where they were, and he used his allowance to buy beautiful, exotic things for her from every city they stayed in, presenting them to her cheerfully as often as he could. Sometimes, he would surprise her, leaving small gifts on her pillow, or at her place setting during dinner. Sometimes, he would wrap them, taking great care in ensuring the paper didn't crease or tear in an inopportune place, and he would grant them to her with great ceremony during some event. But most often, his enthusiasm got the better of him, and he'd return home with a new treasure weighing heavily in his hand, and stand outside her office, ready to present it to her the moment she finished for the day. But this too drew fewer and fewer smiles, and still fewer words of praise. Sometimes, she would look at him like he was the gift, but then she would look away, and John knew she was thinking of Bobby.

After six months spent in Tokyo, Singapore, London, Paris, Berlin, they flew home to Chicago. Gamma and Gramps seemed glad to see them, and John was full of stories to share. Barbara said little, sitting sullen and silent across from her father at mealtimes. But even then, John knew she was at least a little happier to be home.

A week went by. John could feel the tension blanketing the house, but couldn't discover its source. He spent afternoons playing with the delicate Faberge eggs, imagining them as pets for his family of Weebles, much to his grandmother's chagrin. And though the housekeeper would sigh, and cross herself when she saw them tumbling around on the floor, no one removed them from his reach.

Then, one evening after dinner, his parents asked he and Barbara to stay after their plates had been cleared.

“We're going to be leaving in the morning,” Dad said. He spoke to John, and Barbara, but he glanced in Mom's direction, as though hoping for her to step in and correct him the way she often did.

A silence followed this proclamation. Then Barbara stood up so quickly her knees smacked against the underside of the table. Her napkin fell from her lap to the floor. Sparing a look of disgust for her mother, she turned without a word, and left the room. John could hear her footsteps as she hurried toward the grand staircase, her stride lengthening and accelerating as she sprinted up to her room. She always hated leaving.

John loved being home, too, but he loved his parents' happiness more, and if new places made them happy then he was eager that they should travel.

“Where are we going?” he asked, his voice threaded with honest enthusiasm.

His father looked at him. He lifted his arms from his side, and folded them across the table top, leaning over them in a brazen way John would never have dared to perform with his grandparents in the room. John could hear the fibres in the fabric of his suit stretch at the shoulders as they strained to retain their shape against the determined movement of his father's arms.

“No,” he said. His voice sounded empty, but the weight of his refusal struck John heavily in the chest. “Only your mother and I are going.”

This confused John. Surely, they didn't think him old enough to care for himself. He'd tried his best to be as independent, and helpful as he could since Bobby died, but he still wasn't allowed to go into town, or go for a ride by himself, and he couldn't imagine Barbara being too interested in taking over these responsibilities for him. Shocked as he was, he somehow managed to wring out a few words.

“What about me and Barbara?” he asked. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere,” his Gamma assured him, sensing his mounting distress.

“No,” his Dad promised, stepping in to stem the flood of his son's concern. “You're both going to stay here. With Gamma and Gramps.”

John looked to his grandparents. Gamma nodded her agreement. She wasn't smiling, but the gentle expression of her face reassured him more than the grim, unhappy angles of his grandfather's visage.

“Oh,” John said, calming. He recalled that Mom and Dad had gone on business trips before Bobby had died. Usually, they'd be off for a week or so, and then they'd return, contented, and satisfied. But this would be the first time they'd all be apart since the funeral, and it was hard to imagine a day without somewhere new visit, or something new to see. But, he thought, a week or two with the house almost to himself, with staff he'd known since birth, and his own horse he could ride whenever he liked wouldn't be so bad. And when Mom and Dad had finished work, he and Barbara would be right there in Chicago, waiting to go home.

“Well, that's alright,” he said. His grandfather's smile startled him, but he glowed with happiness at the obvious approval. “I don't mind waiting.”

A week passed. Then two. Then three, and he began to get worried. Barbara wasn't surprised. Barbara laughed about it. She told him that they were never coming back. She told him that they ran away because they couldn't stand living with him anymore, and she didn't blame them. She said that they didn't care, she said that she hoped they died, and other ugly words like “abandonment”, and “neglect”. The last one earned her a sharp slap from her grandfather, and no sympathy was forthcoming from her grandmother afterwards.

John didn't want to believe her, but after months of waiting, he couldn't help but feel like she might be right after all. He smiled when his grandmother asked if he was alright, and he was relieved when his grandfather told them that Barbara would be attending boarding school in the fall. At least then he'd be away from her terrifying anger, and he could almost convince himself that his Mom and Dad were off visiting her, and it was he who had chosen to stay away.

Once, in August, his parents returned, taking a couple days to close a deal, and managing to squeeze in dinner with he and Barbara at the big house. He'd stood as he'd been taught to when his parents entered the dining room. His mother spared him a fleeting smile before she took her seat, but his father approached him, grasping his shoulders in an approximation of an embrace.

“You've grown,” he said. He seemed surprised, and his gaze swept John from head to foot, as he cupped his cheek with his large, long-fingered hand.

“No, sir,” John replied, confused. He knew because he'd been measuring himself every night since he'd overheard Lucas Wilkes bragging about the two inches he'd managed in as many months. “I haven't, I promise.”

His father chuckled. “Well,” he said, offering John a companionable smack on the arm, “Perhaps only in wisdom, then.”

“Perhaps,” John agreed, though he wasn't quite sure what he meant by it.

Dinner with his parents was, in John's mind and memory, lovely. His father told wonderful stories about the people they'd met in places like Sydney, and Hong Kong. John expounded upon several of his lessons at school. And even though Barbara, and his mother were quiet, the atmosphere was warmer than he'd felt in years.

The next day, John rose with the sun. He lay wrapped in his sheets, and stretched, his toes skimming the baseboard of his bed. A late summer sunrise was peeking between the blinds, and he turned his head to watch it.

Eventually, he abandoned the comfortable warmth of his bed. He dressed, and went downstairs, hopeful he might catch someone at breakfast, but no one was around. The staff was up, and the cook fixed him breakfast. She told him his parents had left, and gave him a brief, warm hug when he'd nodded, and said he'd like a glass of orange juice.

Father had wanted to stay, he thought. Mother was sad, and father had wanted to stay. But he hadn't been able to keep his promise to Bobby, and they'd left.

It was a long time before John saw his parents again. Barbara left for school, and returned to Gamma and Gramps' for summers, long weekends, and holidays. He was always hopeful that the last would herald his parents' return, however brief it might be, but it rarely did.

He told himself he wasn't forgotten and it must've been true; gifts arrived at the house regularly, for Christmas, and for his birthday. The tags read, “To John, with love – Mom & Dad.” But they were always written in his father's hand.


	4. Full of Woe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter deals with abuse of a minor. It is not explicit, but it is definitely heavily implied, and integral to the plot.

**Barbara** turned sixteen on a rainy Wednesday in April. Two months later, John turned eleven just as Barbara completed the eleventh grade. John liked the symmetry of that, and announced it to her several times that month, placing great emphasis on their paralleled circumstances. She expended an equal amount of time refuting the notion, calling it an unfortunate coincidence of hard work. She'd spent the past two summers studying, and had managed to test out of the tenth grade the previous September. She wanted to graduate early, and said she was making up for wasted time, but John thought that she probably just wanted to leave home as soon as possible.

He did his best to dissuade her from this notion, but Barbara was Barbara, and she was always too far away from him to reach her. But that didn't mean he didn't understand her, and his suspicions were proved true when she didn't come home one day at the end of June.

The phone rang as he sat cross-legged in the long grass by the pond. He'd not heard it from where he'd cloistered himself, the distance, and the height of the reeds hiding the sight and sounds of the house from him. But the crunch of shoes over dry grass alerted him to the presence of someone lurking just beyond the borders of his fragile shelter. Parting the stems that hid him, he looked out to see the housekeeper scanning the area.

“Hello, Maria!” he called, rising to his feet. “You looking for me?”

The woman jumped and crossed herself, and an apologetic smirk graced John's features.

“Master John,” she said, “There's a call waiting for you.” Her chest was heaving but her speech was steady. John rather thought she was pretending, at least a little bit, to tease him and make him feel guilty as she sometimes did. But then her message registered, and he turned toward the house, racing ahead lest it be his parents waiting to talk to him long-distance.

He took the call in the library, pressing the receiver to his ear eagerly. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was not his father, or his mother, though it held traces of both.

“It's me, Barbara,” she said.

“Oh,” he replied, surprised and confused that she should be calling him when she was expected for dinner in less than an hour. He wondered if perhaps the car had broken down, and she was calling for help while the driver tried to fix the problem. In any case, he would be of little use to her. “Did you want to speak with Gamma, or Gramps?”

“No,” she exclaimed, the word springing forward to forestall his suggestion before he had time to actualize it. “No,” she said again. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Me?” Barbara never sought him out.

“Don't act so surprised, butt head,” she laughed. “It's important.”

“Okay,” he agreed, trying to sound irritated that she'd interrupted his afternoon in a poor attempt at disguising his own amusement. “What do you want?”

“Johnny,” she began. The she stopped, and sighed. “John,” she repeated. Her tone held nothing of the vibrancy it so recently possessed. “I needed to talk to you, because I have to tell you I'm not coming home tonight.”

John's throat closed, and his stomach clenched, recoiling from the frost that was spreading through his body. She may have only meant to indicate a temporary absence, but John was beginning to learn from precedent, and his family didn't have it on their side. He gave her the benefit of the doubt anyway.

“Do you want me to cover? When do you think you'll be back?”

Barbara didn't respond, but John heard her breath rasping quietly on the other end of the line.

“Babs?” he asked.

“I'm at the airport, John,” she said. “I'm not coming back.”

The icy tendrils of dread that had been creeping through his veins threatened to freeze him entirely, so instead, he allowed a slow burning fire of resentment to kindle.

“What do you mean?” he said, his voice terse and strained.

“I mean, I'm leaving. I'm not coming home again.”

“What about me?” He pressed. He refused to believe that she would leave him the way everyone else had. He refused to accept that she would do to him what she so vehemently despised their parents for doing to her, and so he fired the ugly words she once used back into her head. “Are you just going to _abandon_ me here?”

“Don't say that,” she hissed, her own ire rising to meet his. “I'm not abandoning you. You're not my kid, okay? You're not my responsibility.”

“I'm your brother!” he protested. His hands were sweating, and he began to feel a little nauseous. He looked around the room, worried he may have been observed or overheard. He fought to keep his voice low. “I'm your brother,” he repeated. “Please don't leave me here.”

“I'm sorry, John,” she said. He couldn't see her, but he heard her sniff, and felt guilty for making her cry. “You know how much I hate it there. You know it, John.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“But you're tough,” she insisted. “You're so much tougher than I am, okay? So you suck it up, and you get through it.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, do you hear me, John? I love you.” Her voice was rough, and the quality tinny from the distance, but John heard her.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

There was a pause, and John thought Barbara was debating whether or not an eleven year old could be trusted, but, as always, she made up her mind swiftly.

“Paris,” she said. “But don't tell anyone, Johnny, 'kay? Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Okay. Now, let me speak to Gramps.”

His grandfather was furious, and he paced the halls with his hands clasped at his back, muttering under his breath for weeks after they received the call. Gamma, however, remained as composed and serene as ever, showing no signs of feeling Barbara's absence at all, and the summer holidays moved on without her.

By July it was almost as though Barbara had never been at the house. Her room still contained her bed, and a few pieces of adolescent detritus – snapshots, friendship bracelets from girls rarely thought of, and old school uniforms, the skirts warped at the belt line from being hiked up inch by inch – but her most precious belongings had been shipped to Paris at her mother's request only a few days after she'd fled.

John was surprised his parents had not been at all upset to learn of Barbara's abrupt departure. His mother took the news with all the dignified resignation she'd been cultivating for years, while Dad seemed to think it a bit of a joke. He'd called once to explain the situation to Gamma and Gramps, telling them that Barbara had moved into the family residence in Paris, and she would be staying there indefinitely, contingent on the fact that she continued her education in France in the fall. When he'd spoken to John perfunctorily that evening he'd seemed entertained by the whole thing, confiding in John that he took great delight in Barbara's ability to “buck the old man at last.”

John thought this a rather rude way to speak about his grandfather, but kept his opinion to himself. He assured his father that he was fine, and that he was happy as long as Barbara was happy. Dad didn't hear his son's lie, or recognise his daughter's disdain beneath his own delight, and he hung up confident that both his children were safe, secure, and happy.

The summer rolled on, the temperature rising as the days passed. With all the children out of school, the house was opened, and Gamma and Gramps prepared for the onslaught of visitors that came with the scorching heat.

It wasn't precisely that he was lonely – after all, school had only ended a couple weeks ago – but John did miss Barbara, and the summertime family tour was something he looked forward to each year. His parents rarely made an appearance, but it was great fun to have full run of the grounds with Elliot, A.C., and Chase after months apart. He would always be the youngest, but this year he was confident that he'd be able to keep up. He was still small, and thin for his age, no comparison to Elliot who at eighteen had begun to fill out, and was more interested in girls and sports than humouring his younger cousins, but at least he'd finally be some competition for Chase, and A.C.. He was determined to be. Besides, as chief resident of the house, he had the inside track. He knew all the tricks; he knew which horses in the stable were the fastest, which maids could be charmed into saving extra portions of dessert, and he knew which stairs creaked, which windows stuck, which doors were locked after dark, and how to circumvent them.

Of course, with the expectation of a full house, Gamma and Gramps were required to bring on extra staff for the season. This presented a bit of an obstacle, as new servants were generally more conscientious of the rules, and less likely to bend them, no matter how sweetly they were asked to by the heir. But by the time the pool was warm enough to swim in, most had been persuaded to his cause.

The first to succumb to his innocent wiles was one of the new housemaids. She was young, and pretty, and almost instantly smitten with him. She smiled at him, and spoke to him kindly when he encountered her in the hallways, which happened frequently. She would slip him little gifts when no one was looking, and helped him grow a stockpile of candy in his sock drawer, vowing never to betray his secret to the other staff. They might be tempted to inform his grandparents who'd be sure to liquidate it, lest he spoil his appetite, and ruin his teeth.

John revelled in the attention she lavished on him. It was empowering, and gratifying to again be the centre of someone's world. He'd forgotten what it felt like to have an ally, someone whom he could confide in, who listened, and made him feel as though his tragedies and his triumphs touched someone other than himself. She wasn't Bobby, but she was there, and he trusted her. It was she to whom he first confessed his anger at his parents, she who was first and last to hear about his worry for Barbara, and when he woke up one night, his underwear damp, his brow beaded with sweat, she was the one he went to in distress.

Clutching his pants in a fist to keep the cooling fabric from sticking to his skin, he padded down the darkened hallways toward her quarters. On the threshold, he floundered, struggling to breathe, half convinced there was something terribly wrong with him, and not at all convinced he was ready to have his fears confirmed. With a shaking hand, he knocked on the door, quietly at first, but louder as he felt his courage about to desert him.

The door opened on blue eyes that had not quite adjusted to the dim light of the small lamp that illuminated the room behind her.

“Johnny?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

He nodded, unable to speak.

Her eyes closed, and she hung her head. For a minute, John thought she would deny him access, and he'd be sent back to his room to lie in bed and await death, as Bobby had. But then she turned around, and motioned for him to follow her inside.

John had never seen the inside of the help's rooms before, and he was struck by how small, and sparsely furnished it was in comparison to his own.

“Is this where you live?” he asked, curiousity overtaking concern.

She laughed, her blonde hair hanging loose, and long over her chest, and moved to sit in the middle of her bed. She looked comfortable in a way that was new to John, her undress and freedom starkly opposed to the dark uniform he was accustomed to seeing her in.

“For now,” she said. “Are you okay?” She gestured to the fistful of clothing he still held.

His purpose recalled, John nodded reflexively, but his wide, fearful eyes disagreed. This was their practice. He would first deny or downplay his fears, and she would wait, giving him the time he needed to convince himself of the necessity of speech, allowing the uncertainty of silence to press him to action.

“I think,” he started, “I think something's wrong with me.”

She stared at him blankly for a moment, but then a sudden understanding came upon her, and she held her arms open for him. He remained still, craving the comfort, but ashamed, and terrified of contaminating her.

“Oh, John,” she said, pulling his reluctant form into an embrace. “It's normal,” she breathed. “It's absolutely normal.”

“Are you sure?” He tucked his chin to his neck, giving in and burrowing as close as he could against her chest. “Do you promise?”

“Yes,” she said. “It happens to lots of boys your age. Don't worry. There's nothing wrong with you, I promise.”

“Okay,” he nodded.

She held him for a while, rocking him gently as his heart rate slowed, and his eyelids drooped, exhausted by both the hour, and his fear.

“Hey,” she said, as she felt him drop, boneless, close to sleep. “Hey, let's get you cleaned up, alright?”

She lead him to the bathroom adjoining his own room, stumbling and loose-jointed like a marionette. Once inside, he shucked his clothes, wrapped them in a towel, and passed them to her out the door before stepping under the shower head. John let the water run as hot as he could stand, rinsing away the events of the night with the first layer of skin.

Finally, he emerged to find a set of pyjamas waiting for him on the counter top. Still skirting the blissful edge of unconsciousness, he donned the clothes and reentered his room, somehow surprised to find her there, folding back the edge of fresh sheets, leaving a tidy triangular space for him to slip into. It should have been welcoming, but seeing her standing there, knowing she had handled the linens he'd soiled, caused the heat of embarrassment to flood him again. He hesitated, stuck in the doorway between one room and the next.

“Feeling better?” she asked, quietly.

He nodded, but he didn't move.

“Then come on,” she said.

John swallowed hard, forcing one foot to follow the other over the distance that separated him from her. She smiled, and he dropped his eyes, not wanting her to see. When he was close enough, she grabbed his hand and chafed it between her own, guiding him to sit on the bed. He stayed silent, and she brushed his wet hair away from his forehead.

“You alright?” she murmured.

“I'm clean, again,” he stated, forcing a grim smile to his face. He wished she'd laugh, or leave, or do anything but speak to him like a frightened colt. “I'm not dying, I guess.”

“Well,” she said. Her eyes flickered down his chest, to his lap, and back again as she weighed something in her mind. She considered him closely, locking her eyes to his, and parting her lips. Her breath was warm and sweet on his face. “Maybe I should check.”

At first, John thought that he must have dreamed of that night as his memory was clouded in the way that events which happen in darkness are always obscured. Certainly, it didn't seem very likely. He was a young boy on the verge of adolescence, and while he'd often observed privately that she was quite pretty, he'd never constructed a fantasy as wrought with emotions as he now associated with her. As much as he tried, he couldn't quite wrangle his thoughts on the matter. It hadn't exactly been unpleasant, but neither had it been free of terror, uncertainty, or shame. He was left with a vague feeling of helplessness, and decided that the best thing he could do was to remain silent. After all, he didn't want one fleeting instance he could hardly articulate to overshadow and dictate the course of his whole summer.

But two weeks later, he awoke once more to the same sensations, and could think of no one to go to but her. Again she welcomed him into her room, and brought him to her bed with warm, steady arms.

Then, the next night, she came to him.

“We have to keep this a secret, John,” she said, “Or I won't be able to see you anymore, and I don't want that. Do you?”

The thought went through his head that maybe that would be better. Maybe he ought to tell someone. But then he thought about how furious it would make his grandfather, and how disappointed his grandmother would be. They might even be angry enough to call his parents, to send him back to them, which would only annoy his father, and make his mother sad. And stuck with them on the other side of the world, he'd be out of reach of the one person he could go to for comfort. She'd kept so many of his secrets; it wasn't such a hardship to keep this one of hers.

“No,” he said. “I don't want that.”

So the visits continued, and every night John would lie in bed, his thoughts racing as the activity of the day slowed. Alone, he replayed the events in his mind, his hands clutching at the thin sheet he pulled to his chin, worried that the door would open and she'd slip inside, petrified that it wouldn't; afraid to sleep but yearning for senseless lethargy.

Daytime was easier at first, but as his guilt mounted, his anxiety increased, and it became harder and harder to maintain control. He felt smothered by his family, and yet completely detached from them. His cousin, Chase, who he'd always got on well with, suddenly became the subject of his ire.

Sometime near the close of July, he'd become the unfortunate bearer of a nickname. By August, it had been forgotten by everyone except Chase.

“Race you to the treeline, Scooter!” he'd shout, as he thundered by on one of Gamma's favourite geldings, swatting playfully at John's shoulders with his crop.

John spurred his own horse on, bent low against her neck, intent on catching Chase and giving him a sound lashing in return. But then, panic overtook him, and a caution typically foreign to young boys forced him to lean back on the reins, and turn back to the barn as Chase whooped and cheered in victory.

Scooter. How John hated that name.

Sometime later, at dinnertime, Chase used it when asking John to pass the salt. Suddenly enraged, John kicked back in his chair, sliding down the seat and lashing out wildly beneath the table. His shod feet connected soundly with Chase's shins, as well as A.C.'s knee. John barely noticed the secondary casualty, so focused was he on hurting Chase as much and as quickly as possible.

“What's this?” the livid tones of his grandfather boomed out over the table, the crystals of the chandelier tinkling together as they trembled before him. John was insensate, until he felt the large, square hands of his uncle forcing his shoulders back against his seat, a napkin still clamped between his fingers.

“John!”

John stilled at the sound of his grandmother's shock. As quickly as it began, it was over. All eyes – aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents – were focused on him. John's chest rose and fell rapidly with exertion, and utter, burning loathing for Chase.

With no apology or explanation immediately forthcoming, Gamma addressed him, her light eyes glittering.

“Young man, you are excused. Please leave the table. I do not want to see you for the rest of the evening, do you understand me?”

John stood, head high and defiant, at an angle he'd most definitely acquired from Barbara.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said.

“Good,” she replied. “And Chase?”

“Yes, Gamma?” came the sullen, sulky tones of the blond boy down the row.

“We do not use nicknames in this family, is that understood?”

“But -” he protested, as several exceptions to this rule sprang to mind. However, all qualms were buried at the sight of her hardened jaw. “Yes, Gamma,” he conceded.

“Goodnight, John,” she said, resuming her meal.

John heard the snick of her fork against the porcelain plate as she continued eating. A subdued chatter picked up as he turned, and exited, chin up, and eyes unblinking against the threat of tears.

After that, he tried to avoid his family, his cousins, and Chase in particular. But though the Carter grounds were vast, and his boundaries practically unlimited, he found it impossible to leave sight of the house, and harder still to avoid the mass of people which populated it.

Chase had been thoroughly chastised, but his genial nature seemed to have erased any chagrin he may have felt over the incident at dinner. He continued to taunt John with the hated name, each use of it more pointed than the last, though he was careful never to utter it within earshot of an adult. It vexed John, and he wrestled with his desire to strike back at Chase every time, until one day, he was mortified to find himself moved to tears over it.

No one was more surprised by this reaction than Chase, who ran for his father, afraid that his cousin was hurt, and more afraid that he might be blamed for any possible injury, physical or otherwise.

By the time he returned, John had made himself ill with hysteria. His uncle took one look at the child before him, and recognised the problem as being well beyond his ability to solve with a short lecture, and a coerced apology. John was bundled up, and hustled inside his grandmother's office where she regarded him seriously from across the polished stone of her desk. She waited for him to cease crying, and gather his shattered nerves before speaking.

“John,” she said. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine, Gamma,” he muttered, sniffing hard, and wiping his hand under his nose.

“Handkerchief,” she reminded him. “Are you certain?”

John said nothing, but dutifully removed his handkerchief from his pocket. His need for it had passed, but he ran it over his face for her benefit, and so that he might avoid her prying eyes.

“John,” she said again, her words deliberate and careful. “Is there anything you'd like to tell me?”

She knew something. Suspicion was in her voice, and he knew she must know something. His head shot up so fast his jaw clicked, and he bit down on his tongue. Her gaze was searching, but as he studied her, his brow furrowed in concentration of thought, he realised that nothing could be confirmed without his word. So he looked her straight in the eyes, and lied.

“No, Gamma,” he said. “I'm okay.”

He couldn't be sure – Gamma was difficult to read – but she dismissed him from her office without another word on the matter, so he felt he must have managed to convince her in the end.

But the next day a suitcase of his belongings was loaded into the trunk of Gamma's car, and he was shipped off to summer camp. When he came home a week later, his sock drawer had been purged of candy, and all the summer staff had been dismissed.


	5. Far to Go

**The** final day of competition fell on a Thursday. He'd awoken that morning to light summer showers that came in sporadic bursts, and spent the next few hours praying they would let up for the afternoon. At breakfast, he was distracted. The pale gloom that had hung over the grounds outside his bedroom worried him, but the closed, ornate walls of the dining room barred him from his meticulous observation. He picked at his food, the eggs cooling, and congealing on his plate. A tortuous half hour later, he had sequestered himself on the window seat in the library. He craned his neck upwards, pressing his cheek against the window, trying to scan the whole expanse of sky above him for the sun. It remained stubbornly obscured behind a sheet of rain.

He threw his head back, banging it in frustration against the pane. His stomach clenched, and he felt the back of his throat spasm in the gummy way that signified the imminent rejection of his breakfast. He swallowed against it, once, then twice. Realizing the battle was lost, he conceded the field, standing tentatively to gauge his balance, then sprinting to the nearest washroom.

Three hours before he was scheduled to enter the ring his grandmother knocked on the door.

“John?” she called. “The car has pulled up. Your grandfather and I are waiting.”

Uncurling himself from around the base of the toilet, John dragged himself to his feet.

“Coming,” he called, listening as her heels clicked away down the hall. A dismayed groan escaped him as he examined his reflection. His eyes were red rimmed from the stress of retching, and his hair mussed with sweat. “Oh, God.”

The ride to Tempel Farms was free from conversation, much to John's relief, as he concentrated most of his attention on not throwing up. For one, it'd be rather undignified, and he wasn't willing to sacrifice the small measure he felt he possessed. For another, it'd be hell getting it out of his breeches, and gloves. The humid environment of the car was stifling, and without a horizon John struggled to orient his spatial senses. He slid a finger beneath his collar, pulling on his tie, his progress arrested by the stock pin holding the fabric in place.

At the barn, the musty scent of hay and horse soothed him a little. He sauntered down the aisle of stalls, clicking his tongue, and speaking low in greeting as he approached one particular box near the end. To spare her the stress of travel, Marigold had been boarded on site for the past week. She nickered at the sound of her master's voice, and nosed his hands between the bars, searching for the treat his appearance promised. Obediently, he revealed a slice of apple, holding his hand flat, her lips and teeth skimming along his palm.

“Hey, girl,” he murmured, pushing the door open just wide enough to grant him access, and slipping into the stall. “You ready for this?”

A voice sounded from one stall over. “Sweet talking your girlfriend, Johnny?”

John sighed, resigned to the fact that it was apparently too much to ask for fate to restrict his relationship with Greg Davis to either school, or riding, but not both.

“Yes, Greg,” he replied. “But at least I have a girlfriend.”

“Sure she isn't your sister? The resemblance is uncanny.”

“Your stupidity is uncanny.”

“Yeah, well,” Greg said, a little stuck. “It won't matter in the ring.”

As if by some divine influence, a warm breeze broke apart the cloud cover, revealing the sun sitting high in a bright blue sky just before afternoon events were scheduled to resume. By the time Marigold had been tacked up, and John's class announced, the umbrellas had been replaced with sunglasses, and the dust in the ring lay beautifully settled by the light rain of the morning. At the gate, John spun to face Marigold's haunches. He placed his left foot, cradling it in the long stirrup, and after a low, preparatory jump, hoisted himself into the saddle, and entered the ring.

That summer, Marigold won him seven blue ribbons. His grandparents feted his accomplishments, commissioning a portrait, and taking him to Spain for a week before school picked up again. While learning to sail on the Mediterranean he was surprised with a visit from his parents. They spent the weekend at the villa, cycling around the town, picking oranges from along the tree lined streets, and savouring the congratulatory champagne posted by Barbara. A note had arrived along with the bottle. He kept it to himself, sleeping with it tucked under his pillow the first night, before stuffing it in the bottom of his bag in the morning, abashed at his overt act of sentimentality.

When he returned to school in the fall, flush with sun and a golden summer, he joined the wrestling team. Much to his own amazement, he made the Junior Varsity squad, earning what, coming from his grandfather, could only be called a highly complimentary and encouraging phone call.

Proud, he'd said. “I can't say how proud I am of you, son.”

High school, he'd been informed in vehement language by Elliot, was probably the worst thing parents could ever put their children through. High school, Chase had seconded, was a downright rotten place. But for John it was anything but.

Bolstered by his success in athletics, he found his interest in academics renewed. He applied himself to his studies with the same tenacity he'd fostered on the track, and found he was good at it. He began to distinguish himself from his peers. He made the honour roll every year, and at his graduation ceremony – a year early, just like Barbara – his grandfather handed him the keys to a red Mercedes-Benz 500SL.

The car was beautiful - sleek, and sparkling in the sun - and he took great pleasure in chauffeuring his grandmother around town. But it was only a few days into summer vacation when he and Chase got themselves into an accident. No one was hurt, apart from some city property, two minor cases of whiplash, and the front axle of the brand new car. Gramps had paid the damage, and was persuaded to return the car to John, but one phone call from his mother, demanding that the vehicle be withheld indefinitely, put a stop to any future summer cruising. She was adamant in her insistence of John's irresponsible and capricious nature.

In January, John had been submerged in endless furrows of papers, applications, and submission guidelines, his future laid out in long, narrow lines like a newly turned field. It was frightening to think that his education was being left entirely up to him, and he'd gone to his grandfather for advice. Under his strict guidance, John sent off packages to all the top colleges in the country. Each was filled with material vouching for his character, and requesting entrance to various business, and economic programs. While folding down the lip of yet one more manila envelope carrying his grade transcripts, letters of recommendation, and an essay expressing his earnest desire to someday run the family corporation, he felt something squirm in his chest that felt remarkably like regret.

He sat, his knees giving out, and his breath escaping in a self-directed scoff. He didn't want to go into business. He didn't want to worry about finances, or stock exchanges, or the price of oil in India. He wanted to help people. He wanted to fix people. He wanted to do for people what the doctors and nurses had done for Bobby. What they had done for him. He remembered sneaking out of the waiting room with a pretty brunette nurse who raced him to the cafeteria and bought him chocolate pudding before dinner. He remembered the tall, stooping doctor who had sat him down, looked him in the eyes, and explained that Bobby was sick, and that his parents were scared, and they might be angry but that it wasn't his fault. He remembered his hand being held, his hair being stroked, and his tears being dried by people with strong, compassionate faces, and he realized he was making a huge mistake.

He wanted to be a doctor.

So, resolute, he marched down to his grandfather's study, and rapped on the door.

“Come in,” intoned the voice beyond.

John's entrance was bold, but as soon as his grandfather came into sight, his feet faltered, and he stumbled to a halt. Evidently, Gramps had not been in the midst of anything particularly demanding, or he'd have been more discouraging of a visit from his typically garrulous grandson. As such, he was a bit nonplussed to hear silence in place of chatter fill the space. Obviously, the boy had come to him for something, and he was keen to invite him to conversation. His heavy, silver pen was replaced in the small drawer beneath the tabletop, and he pushed the stack of papers aside, his attention on his grandson, waiting for him to proceed.

It was a tentative “Um...” that parted John's lips, as his nerves got the better of him. He'd been so certain in his bedroom, at his desk, the college papers in his own hands, but standing at his rather gangly, and tangled version of parade rest in front of Gramps he couldn't speak. Gramps detested dithering about. John knew his best chance lay in a logical, forthright approach, but he struggled to align his thesis and supporting argument.

“Well? Spit it out, boy,” his grandfather pressed.

“Oh, um, yes,” he stuttered, “yes, sir. It's just, I mean, I wondered if I might speak to you for a moment.” He tried to regain some degree of coherency.

“I assumed as much from your presence here.” He grandfather nodded in understanding.

John nodded back, glad to have encountered his grandfather in a receptive mood. He hadn't noticed his own chariness of speech until he saw him nod again, and he blinked, recognizing it as purposeful direction to continue.

“Right...Well,” he began, “It's just, I've been thinking Gramps, about college -”

His grandfather sighed. “Of course, John. This is not news. We've been posting applications for more than a week.”

“Of course, yes,” John said, bobbing his head, his brows raised and eyes wide in agreement. “No, it's not that, it's just -”

“I understand your concern, John, but you must know you've a good chance with several schools. Your grades are, for the most part, acceptable, you've reached a reasonably competitive level in various athletics, and I've spoken to the Dean at one or two institutes already. I've been assured that you've a very good chance.”

“I know,” John said at last. “But I don't want to go into business.”

His grandfather froze, and John held his breath with him.

“What,” he said, the words seemingly wrenched from his viscera, “do you mean?”

“I want to be a doctor.”

That September, John moved into a dormitory at University Park – a freshman majoring in economics at Pennsylvania State University. There had been no discussion.

John studied hard, and joined the wrestling squad, desperate to earn back some of the contentment and freedom he'd felt in high school, but now that he'd uncovered his own profound truth, it was impossible to be happy without the ability to pursue it. It didn't matter how often his grandmother wrote, or how valiantly his grandfather attempted to imbue in him a passion for finance, John was miserable. Sometimes he was so positive he could not spend another minute looking at projected market earnings, or investment graphs, or GDP records, that he almost understood his sister's European exodus. Sometimes, the only things he could find any solace in were the red scribbles in the margins of his papers saying, “solid reasoning,” or “good idea,” or “prove it.”

Four years later, he did. At his graduation party attended by senators, debutantes, and every Carter still able to draw breath, he proved a great many things. He shook hands, and smiled politely, standing at his grandparents' sides at the head of the receiving line, proving his title as heir apparent. He kept up in conversation with his parents' friends, and businessmen thrice his age, proving his confidence and capability. And he'd grinned, and felt a pleasant flutter in his chest followed by an ache of disappointment when he'd opened the thin envelope delivered to him by the butler to find his MCAT scores, proving to himself that he was absolutely in the wrong place.

The party was great, though. The food was good, the wine was even better, and Barbara had managed to find her way home, at least for the afternoon. When she met him in the foyer, she ignored the staid, practised handshake of her forefathers, and swept John into a hug he could tell she meant.

“Congratulations, mon chéri!”

“Oh, God,” he said, recoiling in feigned disgust. “You've gone native.”

“I hope so,” she giggled, holding him tighter as he squirmed. “What do you say we blow this joint? Let's go for a walk!”

John felt an awful lot like he was being coerced into something he ought not be doing. He looked around the room, expecting to meet the disapproving glares of Gamma and Gramps, but they were well occupied by a supreme court judge with a glass of wine, and a sketchy equilibrium. Barbara grinned, daring him to follow her. Nobody would miss him, even at his own party.

Out on the lawn, they strolled arm in arm. Her thin heels sunk into the closely shorn grass, and she paused to remove them, steadying herself against her brother's shoulder. He glanced back at the house, searching for any outraged faces in the windows demanding his return.

“Relax, John,” she said. She pointed her toes, wiggling a finger between the patent leather and her heel, hopping in an effort to remain upright. “I can't get these things off when you keep moving around like that.”

He whipped back around, square toward her.

“You've got terrible balance.”

“Shut up,” she laughed. “Nothing but criticism from you. I'd have thought you'd be grateful to have your brilliant older sister condescend to attend your graduation.”

“Well, thank you for being so condescending.”

“Comes with the name,” she smirked. Finally liberated from the unforgiving shoes, she stepped back. Her shoes hung from the fingers of one hand like ripe fruit, and she flexed her toes, relishing the feel of cool grass through the mesh of her pantyhose. “There,” she breathed. “Freedom.”

“You're going to ruin your stockings,” he pointed out punctiliously.

“Aren't you hot in that jacket?” she countered.

He was, actually.

“Take it off,” she said, nudging him in the arm. “Roll up your sleeves. Do something crazy.”

“Oh, taking off my jacket is crazy?” he asked. His tone hadn't lost the edge of scepticism it had held since Barbara had first showed up, making his doubt and suspicion implicitly felt, but his arms were sliding through the sleeves of his suit regardless.

“It just goes to show how bad things have gotten around here without me.”

John dropped his head, expelling a short laugh. He was fighting it, but her ease was infectious, and he wanted to submit to her thrall.

“I've really missed you,” he said.

“Me too,” she replied.

She slung her arm around his waist, and the two of them headed toward the pond. The house receded into the distance as their steps gradually fell together. The afternoon passed, and they only noticed the hour when a chorus of frogs broke through their wall of conversation, and John's slacks grew damp with evening dew.

“So,” she said, leaning back on her hands, her head tossed back and gazing upwards. The lights of the city were more distant here, and stars were more brazen in their orbits. “You're done school. Forever. How's that feel?”

John shrugged, tugging at the blades of grass beside him. “Oh, you know,” he said. “Good, I guess.”

“You guess? That's not exactly a ringing endorsement for adulthood. Feeling the pressure of Gramps' legacy weighing you down?”

He laughed, flinging damp grass at her face. “No!” he said, as she shrieked, gracelessly trying to block the attack. “Well, maybe a bit. But it's not just that.”

“Oh?” She leaned into him, as though expecting some salacious revelation to follow.

It was tempting to reveal to her his secret hope. He'd not spoken of it to anyone since his grandfather had dismissed the notion four years earlier, but his conviction in it remained unshaken. His jacket lay strewn across his lap, the results tucked in the chest pocket. He could feel the sharp corners of the envelope poking him through the fabric, prodding him to confess.

Barbara sensed his sudden shift into contemplative sobriety, and she grew concerned.

“What?” she asked. “What are you thinking?”

John looked at her, and couldn't help but give in. His hands flew to his jacket, rifling through the folds to capture the letter. He handed her the envelope, and watched as she carefully removed the papers it contained. Her eyes flickered across the neat type, and she leaned closer to compensate for the failing light.

“I got my MCAT results today,” he said.

“MCATs?” she asked.

“For med school. I scored in the 93rd percentile. I think I might have a chance.”

“A chance at what? I don't understand,” she said, shaking her head.

“I want to be a doctor.”

There was a silence as John waited for Barbara to speak, and Barbara waited for John to explain himself. It was just too unbelievable. John Truman Carter III, a doctor. There was no way Gramps would ever let that happen, let alone Gamma. John had always been so vulnerable to their ambitions, and so eager to please them. She tried to imagine him defying them, and laughed out loud at the thought.

“What?” John asked, a confused smile breaking out at her inexplicable mirth.

Barbara made a small noise of derision. Surely he wasn't serious. But John wasn't laughing.

“You're joking,” she said, praying he'd crack and admit it, even if it made her feel like an idiot for falling for his silly ruse.

Instead, his brow furrowed, and he snatched back the papers, forcing them roughly into the envelope, and then into his jacket. With the offending letter hidden, he dislodged his hurt with a brief shake of his head, and smiled up at her.

“I'm not,” he assured her. “But thanks for your support. Means a lot.”

“John,” she called, as he scrambled to his feet, injury and upset driving him back to the house at a furious pace. “John, wait!”

Most of the guests had departed by the time he returned, however he was just as eager as when he'd left with Barbara to avoid being caught. He strode through the foyer, and up the stairs to his room, keeping his head lowered and avoiding eye contact with everyone, including the staff. He slammed the door closed behind him, not bothering with the lights, as he paced around the enclosed space.

He was angry with Barbara. She had laughed at him, and somehow that had been worse than his grandfather's dismissal. At least the stony wall of silence acknowledged the sincerity of his proposal, but Barbara had thought the idea so ludicrous that it didn't even warrant the respect of serious consideration. It had made her laugh. He was angry with her, but he was even more embarrassed by himself because he knew she was right. It was a stupid idea. It was ridiculous. He was a Carter, he was old money, destined to be a financier, not a physician. His family was depending on him, and he owed it to them to continue. The two concepts were mutually exclusive.

John jammed his fingers beneath his collar, loosening his tie even further, and dragging it over his head. He dropped it to the bed, flinging his jacket after it, suffocated and trapped by his suit and the weight of what it represented. Two long strides carried him to the wide picture window that looked out over the eastern grounds. He grasped the curtains on either side with both hands, and brought them together with a sharp jerk. Alone in the dark, his energy quit him abruptly. He slumped against the wall, collapsing at the base, and striking his head repeatedly against the surface behind him, frustrated by his own impotence.

A soft tapping at the door drew John's attention out of himself. He made no move open it, too drained to receive any more visitors.

“John?” It was Barbara. “Can I come in?”

He wasn't sure what his response was going to be, but Barbara didn't wait anyway. The warm light of the hallway seeped in through the crack, clinging to her as she entered. She surveyed the expanse before her, spotting her brother where he was crouched in defeat by the window opposite. He didn't seem to be much interested in her breach of etiquette, or very forthcoming in address, and she paused. She often prided herself on her ability to find comfort in almost any circumstance, but here, in her brother's room, years of distance between them, she felt awkward.

“It's really dark in here,” she said, swinging her arms against the stiffness that threatened them.

“Lights are off,” he muttered.

“Right,” she said. “Can I turn them on?”

“If you want,” he sighed, but she made no move to do so. Instead, she settled gingerly on the bed, crossing her legs at the ankles. John saw that she still hadn't replaced her shoes, the bottoms of her feet stained green by young grass.

“Look,” she said. Her eyebrows drew together, and she began twisting a section of his bedsheets in one hand. “John - it's not that I don't think you'd make a brilliant doctor. I do.”

He straightened at this unexpected admission, shocked and unsure what it prefaced. She noted his renewed engagement peripherally, and used it to spur her on, her thoughts coming more clearly as she gave them voice.

“And I know that I've no right to, but I worry about you,” she said. “You've always cared so much about what other people think, and you spend so much of your time seeking approval from people who are never going to give it to you, and I'm scared that you'll get hurt on your own.”

She glanced over at him, but it was difficult to gauge his response in the dark. He may have been intrigued, or he may have been insulted, but he was listening. She forged ahead, willing him to hear what she meant over what she said.

“You've lived with Gamma and Gramps for practically your whole life. They love you, but more than that, they love the idea of you -

“I think that's a little unfair,” he said, loyally.

“- and I don't want to see you hurt when they turn you out. I want you to be safe. But more than that, I want you to be happy. And,” she said, pressing down on the word and taking a fortifying breath as she committed herself, “If medicine will do that, then I will do everything I can to help you get there. I'll talk to Dad – he loves shocking Gramps. And Gamma will indulge you, the way she does all of us. She thinks we're still children going through phases. But we know better, right?”

Barbara grinned mischievously, but John fretted, biting his lip.

“I don't want to upset anyone.”

“Well, you're going to, John. That's life. But you've got to stop living it for other people, or there's no sense in doing anything at all. So you do that for me, and I'll make sure you're back inside a classroom this fall. You promise?”

“I promise,” he vowed, though he didn't quite know how she hoped for him to fulfil it.

She smiled, her utter faith in him clear. “One day, all the mirrors in this house are going to belong to you, you know; don't let the only face they ever reflect be Gramps.”


	6. Loving and Giving

**Friday** night traffic was a bitch, and John wished he'd taken it into consideration when he'd chosen to cut by the university enroute to his grandmother's. The semester was drawing to a close. Enterprising students were making the most of the evening, taking advantage of newly opened patios to celebrate their success. Flocks of them danced, and tripped along the sidewalk, making John nervous as they casually stepped out into oncoming traffic, as confident of the drivers as they were of themselves. They were taking their lives in their hands, John thought, as he threaded his way down the street, sharing none of their confidence. He was anxious to speak to his grandmother.

It wasn't a confrontation he looked forward to. In fact, he'd hoped the whole thing settled over Chase's bed in the ICU, but perhaps a peaceful closure was too much to expect in the wake of such a trauma. He knew he'd made a mistake. He knew it down to his marrow, and he hated himself for it. He'd acted selfishly, in a way he knew was wrong, in a way he knew someone stronger, or braver than he would never have acted. Someone like Dr. Benton. Someone like his grandmother. Had he watched any other physician resuscitate any other young man with more than forty minutes of asystolic rhythm he would have been ethically unable to countenance those actions. But he couldn't let Chase go. Not without at least trying to save him. And if he failed, what then was the point of it all? Bobby died, and he'd promised himself he'd never let that happen again, promised to dedicate his life to prevent that from happening to others. Why then had he bothered to learn the practice of medicine if he couldn't exercise it to save those he loved? What was the point if he sat back and watched that same tragedy circle his family, like some great carrion bird, for a second time when he had the power, and the right to stop it?

And there had been that niggling voice at the back of his head, wrapped in the fibrous muscles at the base of his neck, that told him if he lost Chase, he'd lose everything. He'd be back in the boardrooms, at the balls, on the company plane being oppressed into the service of his family, once more the heir apparent.

Oppressed. He hadn't dared to articulate it so pointedly to himself, but the moment the word had been uttered he couldn't deny it. He did feel oppressed by his family, suffocated, and restrained like so many of the patients he saw, as they consulted amongst themselves, seeking the best means to keep him close, and pliant. Gamma had said they'd been indulged, but John thought a more accurate term would be “pandered to”. The trappings of his childhood had been none of his doing. The horses, and the cars, and the staff, and the money had bought him a kind of freedom. He'd benefited from it, and he knew that, but he hadn't asked for it. And none of it could be bestowed as a down payment for a whole life. The only thing he'd ever asked for was County; that building with those hallways, the veins that carried the lifeblood of the hospital, the patients who populated it, from one organ to another, each room controlled by a nervous system of doctors and nurses who tended them. It had been nothing like he'd expected. It was better. And he was so much better for it. But his family could not see this. All they could see was his stiff, straight spine as he walked away from them – two more things he'd inherited, but refused to acknowledge.

That was his burden. It was what he woke to every morning, and shouldered, hiding it beneath a white coat and jocund nature. His privilege was vast, and he resented the implications of it as much as he casually exploited it. Now, he was being tested. Or punished. Or both. But whatever his grandmother's aim in this, her arrow had struck Carol instead of him, and he would see it rectified. Gamma had always been direct, and she appreciated the same attitude from her children, and grandchildren. John knew this, and he knew her, perhaps better than anyone else in the family. She may not have been able to appreciate his decision, but she had supported him through school, and she still supported him now. If he could admit his guilt about Chase, and appeal to her innate sense of justice then he was sure she'd be forced to redirect her ire towards him, as opposed to County. He would not jeopardize the patients, he would not jeopardize his colleagues, but he was used to disappointment.

He was used to abandonment, too, he thought as he drove home a few hours later. The streets that had been so populous before were now calm. Those who had been so eager to meet with friends or family at the end of a long day had either succeeded, or given up the chase, and were content to navigate the world calmly, moving mechanically along with the crowd. John followed, the lull of activity precipitating a dip into melancholy.

Gamma giveth and Gamma taketh away.

It wasn't the money, he thought defiantly. He was glad, he was happy it was gone. It didn't matter anyway. She'd only stripped him of it to provoke him, so sure of his ineptitude, sure that it's loss would cripple him, the way he'd crippled Chase. How satisfying would she find it to have him stagger back to her, to Gramps, and ask for their help? To work off his debt to them, to the family, to Chase by submitting to their endless, inescapable, unceasing demands?

As he sat waiting for the change of a light, he picked at the skin of his palm, scratching the surface with his thumb, worrying at it until the flesh was pink, and tender. She may not have even meant it, he considered. The righteous outrage of earlier was being soothed somewhat by the vibrations of the engine, and he found himself inclined to kindlier musings. She may only have meant to frighten him into capitulating. He'd drawn blood by covering for Chase. That was presumptuous, and unacceptable. She needed to remind him of his place, of his dependency.

Well, so much for that.

Naturally, the emancipation of the heir of the first family of Chicago was not something that could be kept clandestine for long. Gramps was apparently too humiliated to degrade himself further with a second public dressing down. Gamma ceased speaking to him entirely, except vicariously through the banks who wrote to inform of the immediate closure of his accounts. Dad called, tersely informing him that he'd taken things too far, and he'd be better served by just apologizing and letting the whole thing blow over. Mom hadn't spoken to him since he'd graduated. She'd made her position clear then, and he assumed it hadn't changed now. The lone voice of dissent amongst them was Barbara's.

“You can't tell me you're surprised, John,” she said. “Don't act like you're surprised.”

“I am,” he blurted, shocked by her nonchalance. “You're not?”

“Well, I am a bit surprised at you, if I'm honest.” Her voice carried down the line, conspiratorial tones bringing them closer, even as the aural sounds of her distant country coloured her speech and highlighted their separation. “Look, John, it's all about the money. It always is, it always has been. Gamma and Gramps – they are the company. You are their long-term business model.”

“I know what the family expects, Barbara. I know Gramps has always wanted me to come home, take over some of the accounts, I don't know; and I know that this, this whole thing with Chase...I guess they feel like I owe them.”

“Listen to me,” she said. “You do not owe them anything.”

He paused, afraid to disagree lest he sway her own opinion. But he knew better. She hadn't been there for years, and the admission came out in spite of himself.

“Maybe I do,” he said. “They've given me a lot over the years, you know? Everything.”

“Giving is not loving, John.”

So, when his savings ran out, he moved out of the double bedroom apartment he'd continued to rent after Dennis died (having kept it out of nostalgia, regret, or indolence he wasn't sure), and registered with the college as a Resident Advisor. The position came charged with responsibility over facilities and students, the combination of which seemed perpetually untenable. But most importantly, it came with a room he quickly furnished with the remainders of his past. It wasn't the size or the state of his quarters that he found the most startling, but the way it still felt alien once he'd moved in. Cardboard boxes filled with possessions he barely recognized, and had even less of an idea as to how to work was a pretty pathetic reflection of his life, even by his own accounting.

And he found he really missed his family.

In the four years he'd been at County he'd never felt as untethered as he did now. He wasn't delusional, though he knew his relatives were otherwise convinced, but he had harboured some bright hope that he was loved for himself and not his position. He'd detested that bias. He'd spent a good portion of his medical education trying to outrun it. The summer after he'd started at Northwestern he'd crewed with a team off the coast of South Africa, and he'd come back to face the scrutiny of his peers. Many of them were on scholarships, more of them had taken out extended loans, and while interest and excitement dominated their enquiries into his adventures, he'd experienced a slow awakening to their jealousy, disdain, and dismissal. So after his first rotation in dermatology, he bought a Jeep, and tried to blend in. But he had to wear the coat. It was a gift.

It was a giveaway. He knew Dr. Greene was curious, and he knew Benton was downright suspicious, but frankly, he was too preoccupied by the increasing likelihood of his own violent death at Benton's hands to be worried about being found out.

Even still, he should have known that it would be impossible to outrun his family, especially considering the fact that he only sort of wandered down the street. But it had been comforting to know that no matter the hostility he faced at work, no matter how many times he was ripped to shreds by patients, or families of patients, or residents, he had his Gamma checking in on him at Christmas, extending the olive branch through Carol's clinic. He believed the gesture well-intentioned, even if it was monetary. Like Barbara always said, money was what they knew.

It wasn't what he wanted to be known for, though. Perhaps it was a symptom of his upbringing, but he acknowledged the fact that he was arrogant enough to desire some higher recognition. It wasn't enough to be a Carter. He wanted to be more than the sum total of his family's account holdings, and medicine had added a couple initials to his name. County had added even more than that. The respect, the confidence, the trust, and control he'd been craving were bequeathed to him by the staff there. Sure, he'd had to earn each one, but he was never teased with them. They may have eluded him at times, but they were always attainable goals, and all the sweeter for it.

But it was a terrible discovery to find the bitter pill crushed in a spoonful of honey his family had given him; to find that the respect, and confidence, and love he'd assumed innate to his relationships with his kin were conditional. And he couldn't defend that any more. So, the next time he met with disaster, he moved in with Kerry Weaver. And though he wasn't sure he believed in any great, omniscient presence, it felt like Providence that when the water of the womb ran dry, the blood of the covenant transfused his veins.


	7. Hard Living

**John** awoke on Saturday to the sight of his grandmother at the side of his hospital bed, and stopped breathing.

“Gamma?” he said. His voice cracked from disuse, and the dry air of the recovery ward.

She turned away, and John worried he might be delirious with fever, septic and going into shock. But the monitors whistled and whirred away steadily, and his grandmother's form neither flickered nor wavered, instead returning to his side with a most welcome cup of water.

He sat up quickly, covering a wince with a tight smile as his adjustment tugged at his stitches and the cords still clinging to his form like the parasitic jungle vines which suffocated their host, even as they lived off them. The clear, all-seeing eyes of his grandmother could not be convinced of his subterfuge, and she drew her brows together. Long talks with Barbara, and two years on his own argued against his own innate compassion that wanted to believe her expression one of concern, telling him she was more likely dismayed, and disgusted with his weakness. He struggled to shake off the lingering stupor of drugs and sleep, drinking deeply from his glass.

“Slowly, John,” she said. “You'll make yourself sick.”

Hands that had the surety of practice pressed against his shoulder, and drew away the cup. He relaxed against the pillows at his back, relinquishing his hold on the cup, and gazing at the ceiling as he tried to compose himself. Gamma set the near-empty vessel on the table behind her, and returned to the bed, cresting his brow, and combing back his hair with her hand.

“Don't,” John said. He jerked away, the muscles in his neck protesting as the pull travelled all the way down his back, reminding him of his injury as a rider reminds his mount of its place. “I haven't washed my hair.”

The hand in his hair froze, and after a brief moment of silence, she spoke.

“Would you like me to help you?”

Astonishment coursed through him, and his head snapped back to face her, wide eyes meeting her own. She met his uncertain scrutiny with cold, unflinching confidence, removing her hand, and folding them in front of her as she waited for his answer. He examined her closely, searching not for sincerity – he'd never known Gamma to offer something she didn't mean to give – but for intent. Her stern visage was fixed, and though he desperately wished for the tactile comfort of her touch, he could not bring himself to receive something bestowed out of a sense of duty, and not devotion. It was enough that she was here. He would not force her to give more than she wanted to.

So he turned his face into his pillow, closed his eyes, and whispered, “No.”

The sound of his grandmother's practical heels punctured the air as she crossed the room. He heard fabric shift and brush against skin as his Gamma donned her coat, and prepared to leave. He ached for sleep to attend him as a nurse would, wishing he could summon it as easily that he might not have to consciously acknowledge his grandmother's departure. The heels clicked back across the room, and his eyes fluttered open, terrified that he might miss seeing her one last time in spite of it all. Instead, he was surprised to see the sheen of her silk blouse ripple in the light, as she rolled up the sleeves and buttoned them into place. Her suit jacket had been removed, and laid across the top of the visitor's chair, resting on the dark wool of her coat. She stood poised outside the door to the bathroom, a shallow basin in her hand, as she looked back towards her grandson where he lay.

“I'll just get some soap, and warm water.”

A few minutes later, he sat propped up in bed, the water filled basin in his lap as his grandmother ran thin, strong fingers through his hair, massaging the soap from root to tip, root to tip, again and again.

“I used to do this for your brother,” she said, as she worked.

John's eyes were closed, and his breathing deep as his head wobbled backwards and forwards with the motion of her hands. His voice seemed to come from the deep recesses of sleep, and when he spoke it was thick, and honest.

“Bobby didn't have any hair,” he said.

Gamma chuckled quietly. “Before the chemo,” she whispered. “Lean back.”

John obliged, tilting his head as she began scooping handfuls of warm water over the soapy tufts of his hair, catching it in the basin she steadied against the base of his neck. The soothing trickle of water echoed brightly in the close confines of his sterile room, masking the aloof, mechanical noises of hospital equipment.

Satisfied she'd cleansed his hair of the soap at last, she laid the basin aside on the table, and covered John's head with the thin towel she carried on her shoulder. She dried his hair, all brisk efficiency, scratching at his scalp, and wiping neatly behind his ears, before throwing the towel back over her shoulder. Gently, she lowered John's head to his pillow, cradling the joint between his neck and head as one would an infant.

“There we are,” she said. “Much more agreeable.”

“Thanks, Gamma,” he mumbled, barely noticing the shift in altitude. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

“You're welcome, John,” she said. “And when you're well enough, I'll be waiting to take you home.”

John felt well enough to return to work long before his grandmother felt he was well enough to leave her sight, but his constant application of logical argument coupled with sheer persistence eventually won out. He hobbled out one morning on crutches that pinched at the skin beneath his arms, tugging at his wounds, but granting him the mobility he craved, and saving him from the deep, crippling pain that raced up his leg at the touch of ground beneath it. And though he struggled with the steps, with the doors, with the staff, and with the patients, he worked.

He worked, and when he came home exhausted, his grandmother sat him on the sofa in the west sitting room, brought him soup and toast, and confiscated the crutches.

Every day he diligently roused himself from his bed, mustered his forces, and went to County. His grandmother watched as he syphoned all his hard earned strength into that place, and he returned to her each night with longer steps but a shorter temper. She saw him as he fumbled for footing on legs already made thin and fragile with sickness, and she noted each turning away of his head, hoping that feigned ignorance would grow into truth. But she'd never been one to pretend, hating the easy escape it promised, and so she asked him again. Perhaps in earlier years she could have glimpsed the power medicine held over him, catching fleeting images of victories bought with his sweat, and the blood and tears of others, but she had failed to understand it then, and she refused to try now. The line between doctor and patient had been erased, the glamour of the title burnished with suffering as he floundered.

Physician, heal thyself.

What an idiotic mantra, she mused. Hospitals and doctors were charming, and romantic in theory, but she was old enough, and had lived long enough to know that the smell of alcohol existed only to cover the stench of death, and that doctors were only human. They could cut, and stitch, and prescribe as much as they liked, but they were only a thin, transparent membrane between one plane and the next.

John told her that's exactly what separated one cell from another, and yet here she was. Here _he_ was, whole, alive, and as stubborn as ever, so perhaps her analogy was a bit unreasonable.

But she wished he'd give it up.

He didn't sleep, he didn't eat, and he talked less and less. If he was truly as healed as he claimed, then where was the vivacious, earnest young man she'd excised from her life two years ago? She was proud, but not so arrogant as to imagine his new found reticence her doing.

Then she received a call from Peter Benton.

The name she recognized, but without a face to put it to she faltered for a moment.

“I'm a colleague of your grandson's,” he said, and she remembered where she'd heard that name before. And from whom.

“John's friend,” she said, not as a correction, but a confirmation.

The voice on the other end hesitated as it considered, an act obviously foreign to it as the atmosphere remained tense, hanging at the end of a glottal stop. Then, it forged on unbowed.

“Yes,” he said. “Carter has – there was a situation at the hospital last night.”

She felt her heart jump to her throat, and she swallowed, fighting to keep its vibrato from her voice.

“Is John alright?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Dr. Benton replied. “Yeah, he's fine. He will be fine. But I think it's important that I speak with you in person as soon as possible.”

There was concern in his tone, as though in remembrance of fear, but not in anticipation of it. Somewhat calmed by this, she exhaled, regaining her composure.

“Are you free this afternoon?”

“Yeah, I am,” he said.

“Come by the house around one, and we'll have lunch.”

His news may very well be urgent, but that was no reason to abandon civility.

So she was forced to once more witness her grandson rebuild himself, stitching the tattered remains of his integrity to his battered frame. But this time when he went back to work, there was a burgeoning flare of hope which illuminated him that hadn't been present since Lucy died. It was dim, and it was small, and sometimes it flickered in and out of existence so fleetingly she worried she only imagined this change, but it was resilient and she saw in him a renewed determination to succeed.

She only wished he could see it in himself.

Instead, he appeared expectant of failure, of disappointment, and she wondered at the strength of man to fight so hard against an army lead by himself. It was staggering. The only relief he seemed to find was in his work, each achievement and commendation bolstering his confidence, and replenishing his reserves, every loss depleting them dramatically. It wasn't like before, when each patient had been a threat, and each procedure an exam he hadn't studied for. This time, the battles he fought in the trauma room were a respite from the ones he fought within himself. She saw this, and ironically, she was thankful for medicine. She didn't like it, the great and terrible call, but she saw the fragile refuge it offered, and she felt its benefit for the first time in her life as John once more consigned himself to its practice.

But he never recovered his former naive cheer. A part of her was convinced this was only right. He'd grown up at last. The shock of trauma was perhaps an unfortunate catalyst, but she was no longer worried that he'd pass through life open, and vulnerable, incapable of anticipating an attack, incapable of protecting himself. But a larger part of her thought it an utter tragedy that her own sweet boy saw the suffering of others, and knew it so intimately that it compassed the brown pools of his eyes and he was haunted by it long after he'd relieved it from someone else.

She was reminded of Pandora, and her wisp of hope. And she wondered how she might herself quicken that same spirit in her grandson.

She'd spent his whole life lavishing gifts upon him, raising him in the image of the John Carter's before him, but he'd never wanted it. He'd never wanted the conditional support his place in her house had offered him, and now, when that was all she had to give, she struggled to find a way to deliver it unconditionally. He was proud, he was distant, he would never come to her willingly, preferring to spend his time at work than at home with her. He'd never admit it, but after all this time, he'd become a Carter. And the Carter's, she knew, were a business. Not a family.

Years later, he sat at her side on a Saturday. She lay before him in her bed, a state of perpetual peace smoothing her features. She was placid, and gentle in a way she rarely had been in life, in a way John had been fortunate to know, and in a way he missed. Sorrow bent his head like the swans that were reflected in the smooth, glassy surface of the pond outside her window.

He'd tried to be a grandson deserving of her care, and he worried now that his work, his own ambition had prevented this, instantly forgiving and forgetting every disagreement, and disappointment; forgetting that work was what his grandmother too had loved, what she'd devoted much of her life to, and what she'd expected her children to commit to in equal measure. He'd become so practised at distancing himself he forgot that her blood flowed through him still.

But she'd been as shrewd in death as she had been in life.

John hadn't wanted the money, he'd never wanted the money, and at first he didn't see it, feeling only confusion, doubt, and the familiar suffocating pressure of his family's expectation, and he ran away. But for once, it wasn't about the money.

When she bequeathed the entirety of the Carter Family holdings to her grandson, mindless of his cousins, or her own son, his father, it was with the trust that he would understand what she meant. And eventually, he did. Eventually, he came to see her aim in this final act. That in giving him this last gift, he would know it wasn't about stocks, or portfolios, or any of the things he used to fear. It wasn't about the money; it was about _him_. Unconditionally. It was about cultivating a fair outlook and a graceful heart; about the triumph of happiness over sorrow; about the distance you travelled and the effort it took to get there. It was about loving, and giving, and knowing the difference, and it was work enough to fill all the weeks of a life.


End file.
